


And We Passed Through The Vale Of Tears

by Lypreila



Series: Anya Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After Haven, Angst, Anxiety, Anya Trevelyan, But only a little, Cassandra Pentaghast - Freeform, Cole - Freeform, Dorian - Freeform, Dorian is awesome, Fluff, Friendship, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Male-Female Friendship, Other, PTSD, Reading, Solas - Freeform, Talking about books, Templars, angst with a bit of fluff, angst with fluff, cullen rutherford - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7226521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lypreila/pseuds/Lypreila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Haven, Anya Trevelyan wakes up to Templar armor glinting in the dim firelight of her tent.  A bad time ensues, but Dorian and Cole are there to make it better with books and flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Passed Through The Vale Of Tears

**Author's Note:**

> I got some nice responses to the first two fic's I did for the 2016 Dragon Age Alternative Pairing Week, so.... even though the event is over, have some more of Anya Trevelyan, my child I've hurt the most. Mild trigger warnings for Templars being dicks, anxiety attacks, even a small bit of PTSD.

The first thing she sees when she wakes after Haven is Templar armor, glinting in the ruddy light of a salvaged candle. It is instinct, really, something she can’t control. The rage and fear, gathering in the pit of her stomach as she moves desperately away, scrabbling for purchase on the rough cot, blankets sliding beneath her. It moves through her, and out her outstretched hand, the flames flying towards the poor man who looks at her with such terror. 

“Herald!” is the only word he can get out before he has to turn, allowing the shoulder plate of his armor to take the brunt of the flame. 

“Herald, Please! Commander, Mother Giselle!” 

His panicked shouts are cut short when he has to lift his shield, breaking apart a ball of ice that flies from the Herald’s shaking fingers. 

(He will tell her later, tearfully and on his knees, that he hadn’t meant to. That a decade of training had taken over, and he had acted without thinking, and she will forgive him then, with a gentle smile, urging him to his feet, and telling him she understood. )

But now, in the moment, the smite leaves him automatically, and Anya can feel it weighing on her, sapping her strength and her mana, and at last she finds it in her to make a sound. 

The scream echoes around the camp, bringing several people to their feet. As one, Cassandra and Cullen stumble wearily towards the tent where the Herald is resting, the wet snow clinging to them, slowing their steps. By the time they get there Mother Giselle is outside, face to face with a solemn looking Solas and a frightened but earnest looking Cole. The recruit who had been keeping watch over her stands to one side, tears rolling down his boyish face. 

“What is the meaning of this? Why is the Herald screaming?” Cassandra asked over the sounds of Anya’s choked, hoarse screams. She locks eyes with the Templar, who shifts his own away guiltily. 

“I do not know, Seeker. And as I am being barred from entering the tent, I fear I will not soon be able to find out.” Mother Giselle’s voice was calm, as always, but it was easy to see that she was upset, and eager to check upon the Herald, the steel underlying her soft voice is unmistakable. She looks older tonight, weighed down by the tragedy heaped upon the world, but she stands firm, spine straight. Her face, as ever, is set in a gentle smile, and only the tightness around her eyes and mouth could betray to someone her anxiety. 

“You can’t!” Cole stepped forward, an emphatic shake of the head marking his words. “The magic rends and rips, revolting - but she didn’t mean to!” 

A hand on the shoulder stops Coles words, and Solas steps forward as well, a small, sad smile playing over his face. Behind him, the screams have subsided into low, muffled sobs. 

“Your ‘guard’ there used his talents upon the Herald, Commander.” 

It is easy to see Cullen’s blanch, even in the low, dim light of the camp fire, and the former Templar raises one shaking hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair in a way that bespoke exasperation to those who knew him well. His other hand remained glued to his sword, the leather of his gloves tight around grasping knuckles. Cassandra turns on the recruit, the fire in her eyes enough to make the young man cringe backwards under the force of her glare. Her mouth opens, then closes, several times before she turns back to Solas, knowing that she is too angry to deal with the rank stupidity of the Templar at the moment. She is unsurprised to see that Cole is no longer there. 

“Step aside, Solas.” 

“No.” 

The word leaves him easily, his small smile not wavering in the least, and Cassandra shifts, leaning forward, anger dancing in her eyes. 

“Why not?” 

“Do you know the Lady Trevelyan’s history, Cassandra?” The question is soft, gentle even, but it rocks Cassandra back on her heels anyway. 

“I… Leliana has compiled an extensive dossier on her past.” The answer sounds pathetic, even to her own ears. 

“But have you read it?” 

It is all Cassandra can do to shake her head, eyes flying guiltily from Solas’ searching gaze. 

“I know all that I need to.” 

“No. You don’t.” Solas shakes his head sadly. “And it is not my place to tell. You trusted me to keep the mark from killing her before. Can you trust me now when I tell you that the last thing that she needs at this moment is you or the Commander barging in with questions and judgments?” 

Cassandra is silent, shaking her head minutely when Cullen begins to protest. Her eyes flick between Solas, the tent, and the recruit standing to one side, looking miserable. Finally she nods. 

“You will come get us as soon as she is able to speak.” 

Solas merely inclines his head in assent as the party disperses, Cassandra and Cullen drawing the recruit away between them. When their raised voices drift back, it is all he can do not to smile. He is pleased that there is now one less Templar in the world who will use his ‘gifts’ upon a mage without thought, happy as well that Cassandra had not thought to ask how he came to know more about the Herald that she herself did.  
__________________________

Inside the tent, Anya lies curled, shoved into a corner of her cot, blankets twisted around her arms and legs, heedless of the cold that seeps in, chilling and raising goose bumps on the skin she leaves exposed. Cole is sitting on the other end of the cot, and by the time she comes back to herself enough to hear what he is saying, the words confuse her at first, seeming fuzzy and sounding wrong in his voice. Eventually, though, she begins to hear them properly, and though she should be used to hearing words from her past coming from his mouth, it still seems odd for a moment.

“Clover, Crocus, Bluebells too. Daisies, Lilies, Roses new. Foxglove, Camellia, Freesia that’s blue. Amaryllis for love that stays true. Cockscomb, Aster, both are nice, but Andraste’s Grace will survive the ice.” 

She listens as he recites the rhymes she was taught so long ago, allowing the fear to recede, the familiar words and rhythm doing their work till at last she is calm again. When she remembers hurling magic at the blameless recruit as though he were the enemy, a low moan of embarrassment escapes into the pillow she’s covered her face with. 

“Stupid.”

“You just wanted to help.” Cole’s eyes are hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “You were scared.”

“That excuses nothing, Cole. I am no Herald of Andraste, but I have responsibility none the less. That boy did not deserve my outburst.” 

“You didn’t mean to hurt each other. You’re both so sorry. I‘m sorry too. You shouldn‘t have gotten hurt. I tried to tell them, but they‘re thick with the sorrow, lost, and scared.”

“I know Cole. This is what happens when people misunderstand each other. We act without thinking. It was no ones fault, but it still happened. We must own ourselves, our actions. Otherwise nothing gets better.” 

They are silent then. She knows that Cole wants to help, but there is little enough that he can actually do. It comes to her then, that they are so alike in this way, in their mutual desire to help others, to alleviate suffering, to dry tears and bring relief from the pain. Anya has mostly used her magic for this, and it is at the very core of who Cole is. The thought brings a small smile to her face, before she is nearly split in two by an improbably harsh yawn. When she looks over, Cole is gone, but she can hear voices murmuring outside of the tent, Cole and Solas, and someone else who she cant identify. Moments after she slides down into the comfort of her small cot, she is out, dreaming of a garden blooming with flowers, and her sister’s shocked face dappled with late afternoon shadow. 

Later, as the others sing a hymn that rips at her soul, kneeling before and gazing at her with such hope, she looks away, uncomfortable with such displays of faith since she had lost hers so long ago. She sees Cole, kneeling by Roderick, shaking his head sadly as he runs a hand over the mans head, easing his passage to the next life. By the time she is done with Solas, who had looked at her, not for the first time, with such pity, she is exhausted again, and retreats to a private tent to rest. It is there, an hour later, that Dorian comes to her, a book clasped under one arm, a scattering of snow covering his black hair, lips pulled into a small, wry smile. She’s had time to find out only a little about him, mostly from The Iron Bull, who always seems to know everything, and makes sure that she does as well. She knows that he is a mage from Tevinter, but not a Magister, and little else. Even so, she re-arranges her face into what she hopes is a welcoming smile, a look she’s nearly perfected over the years, a tactic used to hide the discomfort she always feels when dealing with new people. 

“I heard what happened.”

That’s all, and he stands, looking awkward, while she tries to find a response. When she glances to the side, Cole is there, appearing seemingly from nothing, staring at Dorian with a frown on his face. Dorian, to his credit, doesn’t even jump, but merely raises an eyebrow at him. 

“You heard, and you want to help, so you’re here. Go on. She likes books.” 

Anya watches, fascinated, as Dorian blushes profusely, then shakes it off, staring at Cole while a smile creeps onto his lips. 

“Thank you, Cole. Herald, for you.” He says, presenting the book he’d been gripping to her with a flourish. “Cassius’ Studies on the Synergy of Lightning.” Despite herself, Anya feels something spark within her, and reaches for the book almost automatically. She runs her hands over the cover, enjoying once more the feeling of thick leather beneath her fingers. It is a beautiful copy, embossed with gold leaf, the spine is bound almost an inch outward, with a clasp on the front to keep the thick book closed and safe. It was a very thick book, in fact, and….

“I’d be willing to lay a sovereign on the fact that you didn’t have that in your Circle library. It’s the un-edited version. From what I understand it’s half again as long as the southern version. May I?” He gestures to the chair near her cot. 

“Please.” She says, surprised at how eager she sounds, and from the corner of her eye she sees Cole smiling. 

They speak for an hour, mage to mage, comparing notes and speaking of the way magic works, and slowly Anya begins to feel almost normal. When Dorian describes the time he laid a ward on his room, and the reaction of his father when he triggered it, she is laughing, hiding her smile behind her hand. Cole, who had sat quietly by them the whole time, at turns confused and happy, smiles at her sadly, then pokes at the hand she holds in front of her face. 

“You hide out of habit, hushing the hate. You don’t have to hide here, Herald.” 

Dorian looks back and forth between them, curiosity burning in his eyes, but he nods too. 

“I have lived much of my life with the burdens of legacy and duty upon my shoulders. It is not easy. The pretenses, the acting, fake smiles and hiding it while inside your soul is slowly burning to cinders.” 

His eyes darken, shadows coming to shade the light grey, and she catches a brief glimpse of something beneath the surface of his expression before he turns, looking away from her, and it is gone. Tentatively she reaches out a hand, laying it atop his own, and squeezes. When he turns back to her, the shadows in his eyes are gone, and he lays his other hand on top of hers, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling it away. Anya wonders, for a brief moment, if she imagined the sadness behind his gaze, but when she steals a glance at Cole, she can see that she didn’t. He is frowning, and she can almost see Dorian’s brief moment of sorrow reflected in his face. Then there is a change, startling in its quickness, and he is smiling as though in realization, eagerness written in every line of him, but Dorian’s voice pulls her back before she can ask about it. 

“All I am saying, Herald, is that, should you feel yourself alone amidst this rabble, you are free to seek my company. I can not pretend to understand what you are going through, but I’ve been told my listening skills are second to none.” 

He rises to leave, pausing at the door of the tent, and it is only then that she realizes that Cole has, once again, vanished. Dorian smiles back at her, a small thing, sly and gentle at the same time. 

“It seems you have also found a friend in the young man. You are not alone as you think you are, Lady Anya Trevelyan.” 

He leaves in a blur of snow and cold, and Anya runs her hand over the cover of her book, thoughtfully.

When Giselle and one of the mages come to check on the Herald later, they find her asleep atop her blankets, a large leather book clutched to her chest in a death grip. Giselle shakes her head when the mage makes a move to take it away, instead simply covering the Herald with an extra blanket, and settles down in the chair opposite the bed to read a book of her own.


End file.
